When Beau looked back at the woman in nurse’s scrubs, he saw her crossing the street heading straight for him. As she arrived, he could see tears in her eyes. She was about five-five, a hundred pounds. She had a very pretty face. Up close, her hair looked strawberry blonde.
She pointed a shaky hand toward the body and said, “I think that’s my husband.”
Beau gently took her elbow and led her away from everyone down to the end of the drugstore and had her lean back against the wall. He pulled his portable radio from his back pocket and called Jodie.
“Can you come around the corner?”
Jodie came immediately and Beau moved toward her, keeping a wary eye on the strawberry blonde.
“You have the robber’s name yet?”
“We’re just going through his wallet now. John Clay.”
Beau led the way back to the woman and asked for her husband’s name.
“John Clay.” She wiped her eyes and Beau could see they were blue ovals.
“Talk to her,” Jodie said, returning to the body.
Beau took the woman’s elbow again and led her to the high curb and sat her down, sitting next to her, feet in the street, but not far enough to worry about passing cars.
“I’m Detective Beau,” he began, letting his voice drop. “It is your husband.”
She nodded and sucked in a deep breath. Then she put her head between her knees.
Beau waved to Officer Bertucci. Pulling out a buck he said, “Go in the drugstore and get me a couple Cokes. Make sure they’re cold.” He glanced back at Willard, who was taking it all in. “You want something to drink?”
Willard shook his head as he watched the strawberry blonde.
“I don’t think they’re open.” Bertucci pointed at the drugstore.
“Then go inside and steal two Cokes. I won’t call the police.” Bertucci gave Beau the I-know-I’m-a-rookie-and-the-butt-of-another-joke look, until Beau narrowed his eyes and said, “Go!”
As Bertucci entered the store, Jodie came back around and waved Willard to the crime lab technician.
Beau leaned close and asked the robber’s wife, “You okay?”
“I’m trying.”
“What’s your name?”
“Barbara Clay.”
He picked up a scent of her perfume now, sweet but not strong. She sat up straight and pulled her hair away from her face, then reached into her small purse for a Kleenex to wipe her face.
“I knew something like this was going to happen.”
“Something like what?”
She stood suddenly and Beau got up as Bertucci came out with two cans of Diet Coke, saying that was all they had. She waved hers away but Beau took both.
“The Ford Escort around the corner,” Barbara said. “It’s ours.”
She looked back at Beau and said, “You’ll want to come home with me. I have the receipts for his guns.”
“Where do you live?”
“Two blocks away.”
Beau turned to wave at Jodie and bumped into Bertucci standing there with the dollar in his hand.
“Go back inside and put the dollar next to the cash register.”
“Yes, sir.” Bertucci bounced away.
Beau waved Jodie over and handed her a Coke.
“Thanks.” She popped the cap immediately.
He told her about the Ford Escort and the gun receipts.
Jodie nodded. “Get what you can from her.” She raised the Coke but stopped at the deadpan look on Beau’s face. “You know what I mean.” She poked him in the ribs. “I’ll get someone to take Willard’s statement.”
Beau moved back to Barbara Clay and pointed across the street at his unmarked Chevy Caprice. “Why walk when we can ride?”
“I need to walk,” Barbara said as she started to cross St. Charles. Beau went with her. They crossed to the neutral ground, pausing for uptown traffic along the far side of the avenue before crossing to the sidewalk.
Barbara suddenly turned and looked into Beau’s eyes. “Did anyone else get hurt?”
“He beat up an elderly woman.”
Tears filled her eyes again and she leaned back against the Caprice. Beau waited, notebook under his right arm, Coke in his left hand. He looked around for a passerby who might be thirsty when Barbara reached for the soft drink, popped it open, and took a deep draught. Beau noticed a fresh, purple bruise on her forearm and two older, yellowish bruises above her elbow.
She took a moment to catch her breath, wiping the tears away with her fingers. She raised the soft drink without looking up and said, “Thanks. Really.” She pushed off the car, and Beau settled in next to her as they moved down the avenue, passing beneath the wide branches of the oaks, the air musty and smelling like chlorophyll now. The scent was familiar to Beau, who was raised on a small bayou just off Vermilion Bay, in swampy southwest Louisiana.
They turned up Adams Street, crossed to the other side up to Hampson. Barbara dug keys out of her purse and pointed to a two story apartment house.
“In back,” she said, guiding him through a fence with no gate, around the side of the wooden building, avoiding air conditioners sticking out of the side windows.
“Watch the stairs,” Barbara said, leading the way up a steep wooden staircase that was once painted white. “Don’t run your hands on the rail or you’ll have splinters for years.” It was then Beau identified her accent. He knew she wasn’t from New Orleans the first time she spoke. She sounded Midwestern.
As Beau waited for her to unlock the door, he reached down and rubbed his left knee. And for a moment, he thought of the orthoscopic surgery scheduled the following week to repair the cartilage in his knee.
It was an efficiency apartment, one large room with a double bed in one corner, mismatched dressers on either side, a small entertainment center with a portable TV, and two narrow doors beyond, a closet and a bathroom most likely. The kitchenette stood on the other side of the room.
Barbara put the Coke in the small refrigerator and her purse on a turquoise Formica table. The table had only two chairs; neither matched the other or the table. She moved to the small sink and rinsed out a coffeepot, then reached for a bag of coffee-and-chicory. She put a fresh pot on her Mr. Coffee machine. Beau noticed the place was very clean, smelling of lemon cleaner, curtains fluffed without a hint of dust. The windows sparkled.
Barbara sat in one of the chairs and nodded to the other. Beau sat across from her. She finally looked him in the eye again and said, “He beat up an old woman?”
“Pistol-whipped.”
Her shoulders sank and tears welled in her eyes again. She put her face in her hands. After a good cry, she got up for a Kleenex, took two matching mugs from the cupboard, and asked in a hollow voice, “Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
“It’s strong.”
“That’s the way I like it.”
She brought the coffee and sat down across from him.
Beau said, “Earlier you said, ‘I knew something like this was going to happen.’ What did you mean?”
She took in a deep breath. “I should have said something like this was bound to happen.” She stared into her coffee and explained. Beau took notes as Barbara Clay laid out her life with John Clay in short, weary sentences.
Married two years, Barbara was the sole supporter. John Clay, who had served time in juvenile detention and a ninety-day stint in parish prison for battery, was supposed to be in welding school. Previously he’d taken auto mechanic classes and air-conditioning classes.
“He could be sweet,” Barbara said, taking a sip of coffee. “But he had a mean streak.” She lifted her arm and looked at the bruises. “Never hit me, just grabbed and squeezed, and shook me sometimes. When he’d been drinking.”
Barbara got up and moved to the sink, opened the cabinet below, and pointed inside. “I hid his first gun in there. Behind the cans of cleaners. He was drunk. When he woke, I told him he came home without the gun.” She came back to the table. “It was a Colt. Nine millimeter, I think. I threw it in the river.”